The transmission stopped. The only sound was Coop’s hoarse breath. Botree came into the room, her face swollen from sleep. She shivered.
“What’s going on?” she said.
“It’s happening,” Joe said. “No power anywhere.”
“We’ve got plenty of batteries.”
“We’ll need them.”
“Owen stored tanks of propane in the barn and there’s a generator, too. The pump’s electric, but we got plenty of water cached.”
She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, the same way as Abilene. Her face was worn but lovely. Joe wished he’d met her years ago, before her children, before Boyd’s death.
The scanner emitted a squeal and settled into speech.
“White Dog to Delta. Attempt communication.”
“Affirmative.”
Silence rushed over the airwaves. The sky through the window was becoming pale. Joe held Botree’s hand.
“Bills,” Frank said. “Hold your fire and let him talk. We honor his First Amendment freedom of speech.”
A man’s voice entered the tiny room through both the scanner and the CB as if in stereo.
“Your position is surrounded. You cannot escape. Throw down your weapons and come out. You will not be harmed. Repeat. You will not be harmed.”
The amplified tones of a bullhorn rendered the sound inhuman, the echoing metal of a talking machine. Joe watched dry stalks of curly dock sway in the wind. The flight of a magpie made a black and white blur. The children giggled from the tub.
The sound of automatic-weapon fire blasted from the CB, then stopped.
Botree closed her eyes and moved her lips in prayer. Coop remained still, his face red, his pulse throbbing in his neck. Sunlight glinted on the gold rings that wrapped each of his fingers. Joe wondered how much extra weight they added to his hand. His mother had never worn jewelry of any kind.
The voice on the scanner spoke.
“White Dog to Delta. Casualty report.”
“Negative.”
“Prepare for insertion.”
“Delta prepared.”
Coop held a pen at the black spot closest to the circled F, watching the radio as if it possessed the power to attack him. His hand quivered. Botree was audible now, a steady murmuring drone.
Frank’s voice entered the room. His tone was modulated to an eerie warmth.
“I’m going to read from the Montana Constitution, Article Two, Section Two. ‘The people have the right of governing themselves as a free, sovereign, and independent state.’ ”
Joe stared through the window at the early sun on the slopes. Smoke outlined the mountain peaks, turning the sky crimson and brown, laced with rusty strips of blue.
The scanner spoke.
“White Dog to Delta, stand by for insertion.”
“Standing by.”
“Go, Delta.”
Gunfire sounded from the scanner. The Bills responded with a long barrage of return fire. There was no more talking, only the noise of automatic weapons tearing the air to pieces. The sound rose and fell in waves as the men emptied their clips and reloaded and emptied them again. The pitch of battle increased, and Joe realized that the assault team was nearing the Bills’ camp. The noise reverberated in the room, tinny and unreal through the cheap speakers. It reminded Joe of old machinery rattling.
Slowly he realized that the CB had stopped producing sound. All gunfire came from the scanner, short bursts that received no answer. The time between rounds lengthened until the airwaves hushed. A line of cattle walked along a path outside the window. Their heads dipped with each step.
Botree squeezed Joe’s hand until it hurt. She was crying. He watched twilight pass to day as he waited for radio sound.
After a long time, a scratchy voice came over the scanner.
“Delta to White Dog. Objective achieved.”
“Casualties?”
“Negative.”
“Outstanding, Delta. Hostile casualties?”
The voice of the Delta radio man changed tone.
“All, sir. Uh, there was no attempt at retreat.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
“Repeat, Delta. How many hostile casualties?”
“Four, sir. That’s it. There’s no army here. No artillery. Just a radio and four dead. It’s a mistake, sir. We cut them to bits.”
“Terminate radio contact, Delta. Repeat, terminate radio contact.”
Coop pushed against the table and stood. He leaned on the windowsill, raising dust that began to settle in the golden light that streamed through the glass.
Abilene yelled for his mother, and Botree hurried to the bathroom, as if grateful for a task. Joe left the room and walked through the house. Johnny lay on the couch. Even in sleep, his face showed stress. Joe felt sorry for him.
He knelt by the fireplace and began twisting old newspaper into tubes of kindling. His mother was probably buried beside his father, who was next to Boyd. There were more empty plots and Joe realized he would never claim his. He wished he’d asked Orben if Rodale’s dog had lived.
Joe went to the kitchen, ran water in the sink, and washed the supper dishes. He wondered how far Orben’s body would float. When he didn’t return, people at home would believe that Joe had killed him. Someone else would come. The faucet dripped. Joe went to the mud room and began searching for a gasket to fix the leak. He felt as if another man had killed Rodale and he was simply held to account. He wondered if town water had reached Blizzard yet.
He should have gone with Ty. Now he’d have to leave anyway, and he didn’t know where to go. The prospect of beginning again in a new place filled him with dread, although he couldn’t imagine faring much worse than he had in Montana. He decided on Alaska. He would convince Botree to sell her share of the ranch, and they could homestead with the kids. He wished he had the possum.
He bent to retrieve a child’s mitten on the floor. It was blue with a hole in the palm, like a pair he’d shared with his brother. He wondered how much Sara’s kids had grown. He’d forgotten to ask Orben about his mother’s house. The family wouldn’t sell it, and Sara preferred the privacy of the hollow. She was probably mad at him for making her responsible for the homeplace. If he had stayed, he could have sold his trailer and moved into his mother’s house. He and Abigail would be married by now.
From outside came a steady thump, like gusts of wind slamming a tin roof. He went to a window and watched a dark helicopter descend to the road. Machine-gun barrels on the exterior swiveled with the motion of the pilot’s head. Dirt blew from the earth as the helicopter settled. Two men jumped to the ground, carrying rifles. One man ran to the corner of the barn and the other man squatted behind Joe’s Jeep.
Joe put his pistol in the freezer. He slipped a white dish towel through the ring on the end of a broom handle. Dust rose from the helicopter’s blades, but he could see that the hull was dark green with flat black numbers painted on its side. He opened the front door and poked the broom out. He hoped the men in the yard wouldn’t shoot.